idence in her father made
the situation all the more hopeless.

"I'm sure I don't," she answered quickly; "ever since--ever since I first
laid eyes upon you I have had a kind of belief in you."

"Belief?" he echoed.

"Yes," she said, "belief that--that you had a future. I can't describe
it," she continued, the colour coming into her face again; "one feels
that way about some people without being able to put the feeling into
words. And have a feeling, too, that I should like you to be friends with
my father."

Neither of them, perhaps, realized the rapidity with which "accidental
acquaintance" had melted into intimacy. Austen's blood ran faster, but it
was characteristic of him that he tried to steady himself, for he was a
Vane. He had thought of her many times during the past year, but
gradually the intensity of the impression had faded until it had been so
unexpectedly and vividly renewed to-day. He was not a man to lose his
head, and the difficulties of the situation made him pause and choose his
words, while he dared not so much as glance at her as she sat in the
sunlight beside him.

"I should like to be friends with your father," he answered gravely,--the
statement being so literally true as to have its pathetically humorous
aspect.

"I'll tell him so, Mr. Vane," she said.

Austen turned, with a seriousness that dismayed her.

"I must ask you as a favour not to do that," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"In the first place," he answered quietly, "I cannot afford to have Mr.
Flint misunderstand my motives. And I ought not to mislead you," he went
on. "In periods of public controversy, such as we are passing through at
present, sometimes men's views differ so sharply as to make intercourse
impossible. Your father and I might not agree--politically, let us say.
For instance," he added, with evident hesitation, "my father and I
disagree."

Victoria was silent. And presently they came to a wire fence overgrown
with Virginia creeper, which divided the shaded road from a wide lawn.

"Here we are at the Hammonds', and--thank you," she said.

Any reply he might have made was forestalled. The insistent and
intolerant horn of an automobile, followed now by the scream of the
gears, broke the stillness of the country-side, and a familiar voice
cried out--"Do you want the whole road?"

Austen turned into the Hammonds' drive as the bulldog nose of a motor
forged ahead, and Mr. Crewe swung in the driver's seat.

"H